Arthur Kirkland Regrets
by woodbyne
Summary: There in that tower are the memories of what he regrets most, not as a nation, but as a man; as a flawed and imperfect human being. Even though he's done so much - lied, murdered, robbed, sinned in every way a man can - the thing he regrets the most is that he did nothing. Historical angst fic with crazy dialogue and ghosts. Enjoy


**The dialogue is probably wrong –it's also un-translated. Consult your nearest compendium of Shakespeare. **

Dank, dirty light fell half-heartedly through the high windows of the white tower. Smog coloured the London air yellow and brown and cast flickering, filthy shadows over the blonde man who sat in the spiral staircase of the keep. Arthur sat on the steps, centuries' worth of filth and memories ingrained themselves into the seat of his trousers as though he already didn't have them. The faint trains of twenty-first century life could barely be heard, and he couldn't tell his he was distant or if it was just his mind. Of all the beautiful places in his lovely country, he liked this place least. There was so much history here. Almost all of it, he wanted to forget, and none of it he could, no matter how hard he tried. So after a while he stopped trying to resist and simply spent time here, within the dark walls

So many painful memories that filled this place. The Bloody Tower. Never was a name so apt in England's eyes, and he nodded politely as the froufrou of heavy drapery passed him on the steps. The rustle of the emerald skirts weighed at his heart. She had been sweet. Worn the colour because she knew that he would like it. Of course, that had set Henry off in one of his jealous rages, though he knew full well that Arthur would never bed a mortal. But the king had always had a terrible temper, and an appetite to rival Alfred's. It must hurt, though, to know that Green Sleeves wore green not for king but country. It was a shame that she had had to lose her pretty head over it. A gentle hand touched the nation's shoulder, and he laid his hand over hers. He didn't need to apologise, she had asked that he didn't despite that he felt he should. Anne moved on, stiff skirts rustling and dragging through her afterlife like a ball and chain that kept her walking these halls. She didn't seem to mind though. She had always loved this placed. Henry, too, so she was sometimes a little sad.

As her footsteps faded down the treacherous steps, he froze. The sound he both loved and hated above all others whenever he visited here was just above him. Every nation had their regrets. Wars that shouldn't have been fought, alliances that should have been made. But those were their regrets as a nation. As people, they all had their own regrets. Alfred regretted the lives his people gave for him. It wasn't that he didn't appreciate their sacrifices – every night he prayed for all of them. Arthur had only ever seen this phenomenon once, and it had taken several hours, but in a strange way it was beautiful. It was good to see that reckless, war-mongering Alfred had respect for the people who died in his name. Francis, and Arthur couldn't help but pity his mainland neighbour, regretted the loss of his own innocence to Rome. It had been a great honour at the time, but the Gallic nation had been terrified, and that terror had left a dark footprint on both his history as a country and a man.

"Hast thou cometh fore us to entertain, Sir Kirkland?" Arthur turned to face his biggest regret, getting to his feet, only to give a courtly bow so low that his fringe touched the stone step that still held his body heat.

"Majesty, Grace," he murmured in tones of the deepest respect, "Greatly sorrowed am I that I have not. Thou findest fore thee naught save a man humbled by thought and the burden of years."

The younger of the two boys, peaked out from behind his brother, wavy blonde hair bouncing as he smiled happily at the Englishman. It was always good to see him smile. They two of them laughing could light up a room, no matter how stuffy the court officials. Arthur still hadn't moved from his bow, but he was looking up at a pair of beautiful little boys. They had wavy blonde hair down to their shoulders and both were clad in thin white night shirts.

"Wouldst thou allow Sir Kirkland his backbone to straighten, brother?" the younger asked, a cheeky look on his angel's face. The elder boy inclined his head, and the United Kingdom stood up straight, inclining his head,

"Much thanks to thee, most gracious majesty," the boy frowned, his already sullen face crumpling into a scowl.

"Hast thou not been reprimanded in such repetition that the Furies themselves harangue thine ears? Me and Mine are not of royal stock, Sir Kirkland. We remember thou protestations to Titulus Regius, thou knowst the decree hath long since three months pass'd," a heavy sigh, an utterance so adult that no child should ever have cause for it, dropped from the elder boys lips, "Thou wouldst do well not to forget our bastardry."

"Come, come now, sire, thou full know that thou art mine lord, and not the usurper, Richard-"

"Sir Kirkland," the child's voice was almost comically offended and pouty, "Art thou not in thy full capacity? For though knowst well and good that I am no usurper and as loyal a brother as any hound."

"My deepest regrets to thine offence, Your Grace," Arthur bowed to the younger boy, who still stood behind his ramrod-straight brother, "I meant nothing ill of the Duke, but rather of his blaggardly uncle, thine Lord and namesake, Richard the Third," he'd never cared much for the third Richard, and these actions only cemented his feelings.

_Always a light sleeper, the personification of Great Britain woke to the sound of hissing whispers and light footsteps on the cold stone hallway outside his room. He had opted to stay here, in the Tower of London rather than in the new King's court. Pushing the covers back he padded barefoot over the damp masonry; the soles of his feet peeling off the floor only to be placed back down again. The woollen nightshirt he wore was effective in warding off the night chill, but it was useless in preventing the cold shudder of dread he felt as the four shadowy figures moved towards the room across from him, easing open the heavy oak door open. _

_No._

_No, they couldn't. The boys were no longer in line to the throne. This wasn't necessary. And even if it had been.. they were just boys. There was no need to… boys. Stop. No. _

_Why was it that he was paralysed with fear now, when he had seen centuries of war without flinching. Arthur himself had gutted children for no better reason than they stood before his sword on the battlefield or sang the war hymns of his enemies. But this? These were his children. The boys he had watched from infancy, with whom he had played and jested. Little Richard, who had ridden on his shoulders until Edward demanded a turn (Edward had then tried to use his eyebrows as reins. Any other child he would have beaten, but the little princes had never known any unkindness at his hand). _

"_Your Majesty, mine Uncle? Prithee, be it dawn? Or what purpose couldst thou have in mine and my brother's chambers fore yonder lark has yet risen?" _

_Arthur covered his mouth with his hand to stifle himself. He couldn't go against the King. The King's wishes were absolute – even if he felt that he should never have taken the throne at all. Treason meant death, and death meant the exposure of immortality. The country couldn't afford the bankruptcy his death would mean. _

"_Silence, Edward. We art thine elder and better. We needn't answer such trivialities to thee."_

"_Uncle-" young Richard's pleading voice and familiar question was cut off by the sharp crack of palm colliding with a cheek and a piteous whimper. _

"_We are thine Lord and King! Thou wouldst do well it not to forget, bastard curs!"_

"_Speakest thou not to my brother with so harsh a tongue!" Another slap wracked the tower where Arthur stood frozen in his doorway. Edward took the blow in silence and England could have wept. Just that afternoon, the boys had been running around on the grass, laughing. Not a care in the world, now that Edward was no longer in line to the throne. _

"_Sire, I beg thy indulgence a moment- cease this please! Unhand me! Edward, help!"_

"No_!" the elder boy's piercing scream wove itself into his brother's howl of pain until one became a wet gurgle and the other a gibbering, wailing sob, "No! Richard! What evil hast thou committed against my brother? Richard!"_

_Edward's own yells died on his lips as he did. _

"In thy wisdom, Sir Kirkland, speak well of mine uncle, for tis to him thou shalt answer shouldst thou not." Edward's solemn words were a heavy burden on the Englishman's heart.

"I would your most unworshipful uncle fore me were, that I could with honest tongue proclaim his rogue lewdness and strangely visited person unto the outlying regions of this land. He who would do wrong unto babes and tup his leisure 'cross civilisation, roaring his lionhood in a housecat's mewl," Arthur seethed, forgetting for a moment that he had sworn in front of children. Richard had one small, pale hand clasped over his mouth and a sparkle in his eye that told the man he was smiling. Edward on the other hand, looked drawn and offended.

"Bridle thy loosened tongue, Sir Kirkland, it offends," the young prince said snippily.

"Brother hast thou not humour? Sir Kirkland speaks so not for his own sake, but ours. Does bravery not beget honour?" Richard said kindly, skipping out from behind his older brother and tugging on Arthur's sleeve, a coy little smile on his lips, "I know my brother has ill temper, but hast thou sweetmeats, milord?" he ducked his head in that adorable way children have when they are being shy, and a soft smile broke across the nations face.

"Thou and thine brother art strong memories of mine own boys," he chuckled, pulling two sugar-sticks from his pocket. It was only small magic to create ghostly copies of the two sweets that were actually in his pockets, and these would keep the boys happy, whereas the real ones would cause much distress when the two spirits realised that they couldn't pick them up.

"Thou hast beget sons, Sir Kirkland?" Richard asked happily around the solid lump of crystalline sugar while Edward sullenly took his and shoved it into his mouth to dissolve, "Are they of an age to meet?"

"Alas my boys have long since grown, Sire, though I should think that you would much enjoy the company of my eldest, and you of my youngest, Edward." Alfred and Matthew were always a safe topic of conversation with the young boys. Richard loved to hear of Alfred's escapades and Edward of Matthew's quiet witticisms, and they both adored the nation's tales of famous battles, of epic quests, dragons and knights. No one told better stories, and as the afternoon turned to grey evening, the boys slowly began to fade, until nothing remained but the whisper of children's laughter on the breeze.

Sighing, Arthur leant his head against the cold stone of the wall behind him, his body numb and his chest aching. With lazy movements, his hand fell into his jacket pocket and drew out a lint-covered skewer topped with sugar that had been melted into tiny lumps. Brushing the fluff off and feeling sticky-sweet residue on his fingertips, the Englishman sucked absentmindedly on the sugar glass. It tasted like childish enjoyment and bitter regret on his tongue.


End file.
